


Modern-day GoT drabbles

by stillscape



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:17:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archiving these from tumblr for easier reference. They are what the title says they are, and generally quite silly. Not all in the same timeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brienne/Pod, cooking

Brienne pressed a finger to her temple, trying to dispel the sharp stabbing pain that had taken up residence behind her right eyeball. 

"Tell me again," she said, speaking slowly so there was less chance of being misunderstood, "tell me again, Pod, exactly what your duties were at Tyrion’s restaurant." 

"Junior sommelier, ma’am." 

“Junior sommelier. And what does a junior sommelier do?” 

"Tyrion picked the wine," said Pod. "And I’d fetch it. And pour it." 

"You were a glorified busboy, then." She had no idea why Jaime had insisted she hire him, none whatsoever. 

Pod stood up a little straighter, and furrowed his brow. “I was a bit more than that, ma’am.” 

"I need a sous chef. The waiters are capable of pouring wine." 

"I can learn, ma’am. I’ve excellent knife skills." 

"Have you." 

Pod nodded. “Look, let me—I can—I can do this.” 

She stepped aside, and he created a handful of lopsided radish roses. 

"Podrick." Brienne pushed her finger into her temple even harder. "We aren’t having a 1950s cocktail party." He remained silent. She sighed. "Let’s start with the basics, then. Make an aioli." 

"What now?"

"Mayonnaise. Can you make a mayonnaise?" 

Pod looked confused. More confused, that was. “Mayonnaise comes out of a jar.” 

"Oh, good god," whispered Brienne. The stabbing pain spread to her left eye. "What about an omelet? Can you make a proper omelet?" 

"I can fry eggs. Did it all the time for Tyrion. He was always coming in with hangovers, you know. Liked a good fry-up in the mornings."

"That’s not remotely the same as a proper omelet, you donkey."

"I can saber a champagne bottle open," Pod offered. "Very dramatically." 

“No," spat Brienne. "There will be none of that nonsense here at the Oathkeeper." And she would have fired him on the spot, but he looked so sad that she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. "Go see the bartender," she sighed. "You can train there. Start prepping the garnishes. You can cut a lemon into wedges, I assume." 

Pod nodded, and scampered off to the bar. Brienne watched him go, shook her head, and popped a radish rose into her mouth.


	2. High school AU

Brienne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and pressed her back into the wall of the gym. The notion that she might blend in—or better yet, disappear entirely—was utterly absurd, of course. Even though she’d refused to wear heels to the prom, she was still taller than all the other girls. And she was, naturally, the only girl in a tuxedo. None of the girls who liked girls were wearing tuxedos, even.

But she didn’t have to vanish from everybody. Just her date. Pod had gone to fetch punch for both of them, and a very large part of her sincerely wished he would get lost on the way back, completely fail to find her amongst the throng of teenagers. Even if he’d insisted fetching punch was the thing he was best at. “That’s a terrible talent,” she’d said, but he’d just given her a dopey grin and set off. 

She spotted a few members of the boys’ basketball team across the way and began trying to ease her way across the dance floor. 

"My lady," said a voice behind her. Brienne ignored it. "My lady.” 

"Stuff it."

"Brienne." A hand caught the elbow she’d thrown out, and she whirled around, inadvertently taking out an underclassman. 

"Sorry," she said, but she didn’t bother to help the boy off the floor. 

The hand holding her elbow belonged to none other than Jaime Lannister. The Jaime Lannister. Golden-haired, star quarterback, probable prom king Jaime Lannister. Brienne’s breath caught, and she forced herself to focus on his tiny lion lapel pin…

No, screw it.

She made eye contact. 

A wry smile twisted Jaime’s lip, and he dropped her elbow. “You look…” 

"Don’t." 

"This suits you." 

She stood there, feet spread wide in her usual defensive stance, mouth slightly agape, until she remembered to shut it, and swallow. 

"You as well," she said, nodding towards Jaime’s tux. The look was marred just slightly by the sling that hoisted his right arm. 

He extended his left, non-injured arm. “Dance with me.” It was a direct statement, but she knew it was an offer, not an order. (As if any boy had ever successfully ordered Brienne Tarth to do anything. None had even tried, not since third grade.)

"We both have dates."

"Who says you can only dance with your date?" 

Brienne was awfully sure Cersei would say exactly that, until she realized Cersei was shuffling uncomfortably in a corner with Loras Tyrell.

"Pod is…" 

"An admirable escort, I’m sure." Jaime raised an eyebrow. 

Brienne made sure Jaime saw her roll her eyes before she took his proffered left hand. “Need I remind you that it was—” She had no idea where to put either of her hands. Around his neck? Surely not. 

"My idea for you to take him to the dance. I know." He shook his head. "For god’s sake, Bri, you can—I’m sorry, are you trying to lead?”

One of her arms had wound up around his waist. She jerked it back. 

"It’s fine," Jaime said. 

"I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer."

As they set across the floor, he said airily, “Oh, just think of it as fencing.” 

She swooned, but not so anyone would notice—not even Jaime.


	3. Battle of the Bands AU

Ygritte rolled her eyes. “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she told him, flipping her long red hair over her shoulder before stomping off to join her bandmates. 

Jon Snow stared after her, but said nothing except “Ygritte!” She ignored him, and for the hundredth time, he wished his girlfriend wasn’t in a rival group. 

"What’d you fight about this time, then?" asked Sam’s voice. Jon turned around to find his best friend and drummer holding two 40s in paper bags. He accepted one and took a swig. 

"Nothing," he said. "I mean, the usual. She says they’re going to win the Battle of the Bands, that’s all." 

"They’re a bit louder than us," said Sam, nodding in the general direction of The Wildlings. "Possibly because there’s a lot more of them than us." 

"So what if they’ve got eight members and we’ve only got four?" Jon demanded. Ygritte caught them staring and flipped them the bird; he scowled back. "We’re better musicians. We’ve got more training."

"Being loud counts for a lot in these things, though," said Sam. "Jon. Do you reckon, if we win—d’you think Gilly would go out with me?" 

"She’ll go out with you now, if you just ask her." Jon was, perhaps, getting weary of this conversation. 

"I don’t think so," said Sam. "I think she was looking at that bassist from Craster’s Keep. She seemed really interested in him."

"Craster’s Keep are rubbish, though."

They fell into silence as they watched the last few minutes of the Lords of Light’s set. Everyone always watched the Lords of Light in silence. Their lead singer was sexy as hell, and just unsettling enough to be exciting. 

"Night’s Watch?" said a P.A., and Jon nodded in the affirmative. "You’re up next." 

Jon slid Longclaw’s strap around his neck and plucked nervously at his sixth string. He’d been working on a new solo for _The Rains of Castamere_ for weeks, and now it was time to unleash it upon everyone in this seedy club. It was going to kill. 

"Come on, Sam," he said, nodding at the stage. "Let’s kick some Wildling ass."


	4. Joffrey's birthday party

Tyrion surveyed the scene and took a short, irritated breath. 

"Do you suppose," he mused to his brother, "that Father is trying to send us some sort of message? About how much he hates us, perhaps?"

Jaime shook his head. “Father doesn’t hate us.” 

"No? Consider this." Tyrion waved an arm at the lanes. "He has chosen this location for Tommen’s birthday, in full knowledge of the fact that my hands are too small to grasp the ball properly, and yours…" 

"I shall bowl left-handed," Jaime declared. 

"Yes, by all means, attempt that." 

Cersei dragged over one of those ramps meant for small children, then swept away without deigning to make eye contact. Jaime stared at the ramp, then at his sister, then back at the ramp, then at his useless fake hand.

"On the other hand—"

"Pun intended?"

"—perhaps I could ensure Tommen’s safety from the snack bar," Jaime said. "Care to join me?" 

Tyrion bowed. “Lead the way.”


End file.
